She glanced around the
yurt at the other family members who sat, struck dumb with awe.
She continued: All of
you are blessed and the Creator will continue to grant many blessings.
She retrieved her
_ney_ and began to play, and this is what it sounded like: The wind moved
through the valley, low and calm. The weight of it was heavy and palpable. The
sound of the flute mimicked this wind. If one faced into the wind, the edges of
one’s sleeves might move slightly. It would tickle the eyebrows slightly. The
music, a tongue of wind, would move around one’s chin and lap at the back of
the neck, under the turban or head covering.
Along the wind front,
there were subtle smells. Memories of moist earth, pine branches, wet camel
fur, and dry dust came to mind. The scents were in no hurry, and they did not
rush past each other. Instead, they lingered and left, while the next arrived and
tarried just long enough for the next one to appear in line. The music was low
and melancholy, like each aroma moving along, wafting past.
A gentle undercurrent
of something comforting, like a mother’s breast or the smell of butter tea being
prepared, moved through the air. On the surface of this current, like a leaf
riding the waves of a river, the main harmony reached longingly for the sky. It
jagged up and down, like the ridges of the mountains that lined both sides of
the Panjshir valley. As a man might climb along the ridge of the valley,
bobbing up and down, sometimes going further down a ridge, then climbing back
up, so did the music follow the same irregular stride.
The music lilted up
and fluttered. It was the longing flutter of a mother’s heart for her infant.
Then it sank and floundered. It was the suffering of a child who has lost their
mother and cannot replace that warm embrace. 9001’s heart rent in two as the
_ney_ produced these soulful notes. The music flooded out an apology to her
father, whom she failed. Salty tears made the _ney_ sputter.
She stopped playing
and the spell was broken.
Every eye in the yurt
welled over with tears. The man of the house clapped slowly.
He said: It is a
curious fact that anyone, even a child of five, may merely walk from here to
Kashgar. The Silk Road goes through hills, valley, and even mountain passes. It
passes in front of the tallest mountains that Ahura Mazda has created. But you
do not even have to climb over a single boulder to go around the entire world.
You can go north through the valley and follow the passes with the last caravan
that passed through here no more than two days ago. You must confront the
Elders and demand justice for your father.
9001 nodded. She wiped
the snot and tears from the _ney_ with her sleeve.
She asked sorrowfully:
Do you think it will matter? A thousand years from now, will they tell stories
of people like us who lived in tiny yurts in unknown valleys? Do you think they
will remember me, or my father, whom they barely met?
The man’s eyes glowed
hotly. He said: Yes. Yes, they will remember you a thousand years from now. And
another thousand later. They will listen to stories about you and they will not
rest until they find out how it ends.
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